


The Dreams Of Yearning

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aman (Tolkien), Gift Fic, Inspired by Greek Mythology, M/M, Reunions, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-16 03:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: “Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.”- W. BlakePersuaded by a dream and starved for Fëanáro’s touch for nine long years, Ñolofinwë rides to Formenos.





	The Dreams Of Yearning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mangacrack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/gifts).



> A huge thanks to my beta reader [Cherepashka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherepashka/pseuds/Cherepashka) for the awesome work on this story!

**The Dreams Of Yearning**

*****

After Fëanáro’s banishment, Ñolofinwë in public and in private had become two different persons. During the day he ruled the Noldor in Tirion in Finwë’s absence as if he had never done anything else in his entire life, with such stoic calm that even his closest friends believed all was well. The nights were nothing like that.

Often, grief for his brother’s temporary loss would overwhelm him; a strange kind of sadness, which so easily paired with anger, rage, and loneliness. It left him shaking, with trembling hands and a reeling mind, cursing Fëanáro’s ban from Tirion. Ñolofinwë knew the Valar’s judgment was spoken rightfully, even without his followers telling him so constantly. But how should they know how he truly felt? His brother’s absence hurt in a way he could not tell them, not that they would understand if he could. Though born from another mother’s womb, Fëanáro was his brother – and had become more than that over the years.

It was in these nights in the gloominess of his bedroom that Ñolofinwë thought back to the days when their relationship had initially begun to change, to the moment when first they had kissed. Hiding and revealing identity had been always Fëanáro’s favorite game, and too well Ñolofinwë remembered the great feast of masquerades at Arafinwë’s house when they had flirted unknowingly with each other for many hours and then kissed, still disguised. There had been surprise when at last their true identities had been revealed, but then Ñolofinwë had not been surprised at all. There was no other so alike in mind and humor as his brother; no other whose lips would feel so perfect against his own.

Perhaps, they should have left it at the kiss, if only to spare Ñolofinwë the misery he now felt with all his heart. As it came to pass they had not. Instead, they had found a little room far away from the still feasting crowd, filled with brooms and other useless things, disorganized just as Ñolofinwë’s mind had been. If asked later, he could not have said whose hands were upon whose skin first, or which tunic was the first to fall. It didn’t matter. What once had only been imagined in Ñolofinwë’s mind came to life. Their touches and kisses had been wild and hungry as if they were possessed by each other’s skin.

Although long gone by, the memory of it was still alive and burning brightly in Ñolofinwë’s mind. It was precious beyond aught else to him and sometimes, he hoped and wished that in his exile, Fëanáro would think about that night just as he did.

No matter how well he functioned during the day, the fact was: Ñolofinwë missed him, and with each day Fëanáro’s banishment lasted, his weariness grew in a way that it began to hurt physically.

Often, Ñolofinwë fantasized about all the nights he had spent beneath his brother’s body, touching himself whilst doing so. It was not the same. His own touches were just a hollow replica of his brother’s hands upon his skin and although he always reached completion it never truly was a relief.

Twelve years the banishment would last and each year seemed to pass slower than the last. Of course, Ñolofinwë had contemplated the idea of riding to Formenos but had each time discarded it as a foolish notion of his mind.

Twelve years – and not even then was it certain if Fëanáro sought reconciliation.

Twelve years – without his brother’s smile, his touch.

It was one morning of the ninth year of Fëanáro’s banishment that Ñolofinwë’s resolve not to heed his heart’s call to ride forth to Formenos fell.

The night before he had retired early, too exhausted to continue reading even his favorite book. Almost immediately slumber had wrapped its silken fingers around his soul and brought it away from his misery into the softest of dreams.

 _‘I bring no evil tidings to you, Finwë’s son. Take heart and fear not to go to where your heart desires, but mind that you must go alone without all honorable company,’_ a voice had whispered to him in his dream at night. Despite being awake now the words lingered in his mind as if still somebody was speaking to him.

“Nonsense!” Ñolofinwë told himself, just to find his mind drawn to the words shortly after.

He was starved –

For touch.

For ungentleness of the sort his wife could never give him.

For love, in the strangest of ways.

After nine years of torturing himself, he would ride to Formenos. On that his mind was set.

Ñolofinwë didn’t know what kind of mocking courtesy would await him there, what sort of humiliation. Nevertheless, the idea lingered. What was more humiliating than his own empty dreams and touches?  

Even so, appearing in Formenos as usually he was dressed when he traveled Tirion’s streets as king of the Noldor in Finwë’s absence, adorned with riches and the finest of fabric, riding on Rochallor’s back, would cause open affront to Fëanáro and all his followers. Therefore, he would not wear a crown the day he would leave Tirion behind, no armbands or earrings, no intricate tunic of silk or brocade, nothing to distract from the words he had to say. He would come to Fëanáro’s home like a beggar, clad in the simplest clothes.

For a moment, his pride made Ñolofinwë hesitate. He thought about his choice, then smiled.

Beggar. That word was fitting, wasn’t symbolism alone.

Ñolofinwë would beg, for reconciliation.

For acceptance.

For love.

He would face Fëanáro’s whirlwind of fury just as he had faced – and survived – it before.

It was said that it was easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend (*). Ñolofinwë did not doubt the truth of it.

What was he truly to his brother? Could nine years in exile quench the rage he had seen in Fëanáro’s eyes?

Minutes easily turned into hours, which Ñolofinwë spent in pure idleness until midday found him still in his sleeping gown. He would not attend court today, in need of time to organize his journey as quickly as possible. He dressed quickly without much care, then went to the stables, where Rochallor greeted him excitedly in hopes for a ride.

“Good boy,” he told the horse, rubbing his side. As much as he loved to ride on Rochallor’s back, he would not bring him to Formenos. Fëanáro had often envied the beauty of Rochallor compared to his own steeds.

Instead he found one of the stable boys and asked him for an old mare, fit enough to make a journey taking at least a fortnight. At first, Ñolofinwë had even considered taking a cart with two mules, but that would only slow him down unnecessarily in the rough terrain. An old mare was sufficient to ride to Formenos humbly – his appearance would do the rest.

The boy looked quizzically at him, almost affronted as if Ñolofinwë had put him to a test. Ñolofinwë told him about his plan. He could not simply leave Tirion like this as watchful eyes were always present. But if he was honest it was more than that; there was nothing shameful about his plan, quite the contrary. Therefore, he gave away more details of his journey as it was not exactly a secret. The day he will ride out of Tirion, the news will spread like wildfire through the streets. When at last a suitable horse was found, Ñolofinwë turned to leave the stables.

He met Findekáno by the door.  

“Atar!” Findekáno sounded startled and yet his face told even more than that.

Ñolofinwë sighed. “Do not try to prevent me going,” he told his eldest son, who had no doubt overheard his father’s conversation.

“But –“

“No, Findekáno.”

Findekáno gave a nod and left. He had accepted his father’s decision, just as Ñolofinwë had anticipated he would. He knew why – they both knew it. It was an open secret that from time to time Findekáno disappeared for a while to meet Fëanáro’s eldest son somewhere in the forests between Tirion and Formenos.

Much to Ñolofinwë’s dismay, his conversation with Findekáno had brought forth another listener, Turukáno.

“Do not try to prevent me going,” Ñolofinwë repeated exactly what he had told Findekáno. Turukáno, however, was not so easily silenced. “I will not be persuaded to stay here for another ten years.”

The argument between them quickly grew heated.

“I will not,” Turukáno said at one point, obviously angered by his father’s stubbornness. “But I may try to prevent you going like this, and suggest that you not go alone.”

“Keep silent on your misplaced pride,” Ñolofinwë told him, and then, when Turukáno went on, his patience ran thin. “No matter if you approve of my choices or not, I will ride to Formenos alone, without your or your siblings’ company.”

Making decisions had never terrified Ñolofinwë, nor did he usually tarry. Yet in this matter he had tarried for nine long years ere he finally had given into his heart’s desires. He would not be dissuaded from his course by his own sons.

Offended by his father’s words, Turukáno turned around and left without another word.

He went back inside his house and began to pack. Apart from a couple changes of clothes, black tunics and grey breeches, and a bit of food and wine, he did not intend to bring much, let alone things of value – or so he had thought. But then his eyes fell on a wooden casket, securely hidden behind many clothes. It held a stash of metallic objects that Fëanáro once had made for their clandestine encounters. With a smile he packed them into the saddlebag; they were the perfect gift for what he had on his mind.

 

*

And thus Ñolofinwë, king of the Noldor in Aman in Finwë’s absence, rode out of Tirion on the old mare for all to see, a chatter of disbelief rising wherever he went. He ignored it, keeping his gaze away from those who looked out of the window, brought there by the noise outside.

Soon, Ñolofinwë was out of Tirion, away from the prying eyes. With each mile he put between the city and himself it felt as if more weight fell from his shoulders and a strange calmness overcame him. He rode at a leisurely pace, letting his eyes drift across the plain that lay before him and backwards towards the marble turrets of Tirion. Of late, being caught up in royal duties, he had not often found time for himself and idle wanderings.

Whenever he saw something that caught his interest – a flower, a bird or simply a little stream – he stopped and took the time to watch more closely until his mind told him he had watched enough.

He had expected to grow quickly weary of the journey, being overwhelmed by excitement to see Fëanáro again, and was therefore surprised that it was not what he felt. Instead of rushing towards Formenos as fast as he could, he slowed his pace even further down to walk besides his horse every once in a while, feeling the softness of the grass beneath his bare feet. It was as if his humble appearance brought back many things that Ñolofinwë had thought lost. He rode like this for a couple of days, thinking back fondly of his childhood.

In his youth he could often be found by the nearby streams, sitting on the stones with his feet dangling in the gurgling water. Sometimes, he had drawn sketches of the surrounding nature whilst sitting like this, or written bad poetry. Then, later, he had written letters to Fëanáro, which he had never sent.

That night, on the road almost half a fortnight, he truly rested for the first time. He ate and drank by the fire he had built and wrote more than one letter to Fëanáro to collect his thoughts, and fed the flames with each and every one.

The next morning, he felt refreshed and continued his journey quite uneventfully for a few more days until one morning he saw somebody in the distance. At first, he thought his mind had conjured the image.

Ñolofinwë narrowed his eyes for better sight. He noticed that the Elf turned around and began walking into his direction, looking suspiciously like Findaráto with his long golden hair flowing in the wind. He wondered what Arafinwë’s eldest son was doing here alone. Surely, he had not visited his cousins?

Ñolofinwë only realized his mistake when the stranger almost stood before him. This was not Findaráto by any means.

“Hail, King of the Noldor,” the stranger called out.

Ñolofinwë was puzzled. The stranger looked like one of Ingwë’s folk but did not sound like it. The way he pronounced the words was different, and none of Ingwë’s followers would greet him like this outside of court.  

Ñolofinwë nodded. “Good day to you, whoever you are.”

He had expected that his addition would trigger a brief introduction, but the stranger completely ignored it.  “Mind if I keep you company for a while?” he asked instead.

Did he mind? Not quite, Ñolofinwë decided, and answered thus: “No.”

“Good, good,” the Elf laughed and merrily chatted away with only the briefest of interruptions.

The stranger was cheerful and good company, so that at some point Ñolofinwë found his peace with not knowing his name.

Ñolofinwë had not slept for a couple of days and suggested that they rest for the night. The stranger did not object. They built a fire and sat by it for a while, holding conversation over general topics and drank some of the wine Ñolofinwë had brought with him. “You know, stronger than lovers’ love is lovers’ hate, or so at least I have heard,” the stranger said, then chuckled, “the wounds they make are, in each, incurable.”

Ñolofinwë almost choked on his wine and then looked more closely at the stranger’s face. Now, with the smile edging to mischief and a challenge lingering in his companion’s eyes, Ñolofinwë saw through the stranger’s masquerade and realized that he was not quite what he looked like. The words spoken in riddles did the rest.

“Eönwë!”

“Yes, yes,” the Maia laughed, drinking a generous amount of wine. “It took you quite a while to figure out my identity.”

Ñolofinwë could only wonder why the Maia appeared in the likeness of a young prince at that age when a youth’s charms are at their greatest. Surely not to tempt him. The thought was ridiculous in itself.

Yet the question remained: why did Eönwë accompany him, at least a while? Fëanáro’s banishment did not entail a ban for Ñolofinwë to visit his brother and his father, so at least he had thought.

His puzzlement must have shown visible upon his face as Eönwë explained: “My own curiosity is what brought me here. I was on my way back from Mandos’ Halls when I saw a lonely figure with a horse in the distance. These lands are not often wandered by your kind, least of all by kings disguised as humble beggars. Formenos it is then, I take it?”

Ñolofinwë ignored the insult. “Yes.”

Eönwë stood, then bowed – whether in earnest or in mockery, Ñolofinwë wasn’t certain. “A pleasant and uneventful journey – and thank you for the hospitality. I dearly wish hospitality is what awaits you in your half-brother’s halls,” the Maia said and was gone.

“Strange folk,” Ñolofinwë mumbled, watching the dance of the flames for a while until finally, his mind returned to Fëanáro and, with the thought of his brother’s lips sealed over his own, he drifted off to sleep.

The terrain grew rougher during the next day, which slowed Ñolofinwë further down. Formenos could not be far away anymore, judging by the days he had already spent on the road and the condition of the road.

With each passing hour both his excitement and his nervousness grew until he could not think of anything else.

Fëanáro.

Fëanáro!

He didn’t pay attention to his surroundings anymore, no matter how beautiful they were, nor did he rest at gurgling streams to refresh himself after a long day’s ride. He rode on and on, whilst in his mind it was not the horse he rode.

When at last Formenos with its dark walls came into sight, Ñolofinwë stopped his horse with shaking hands.

Calculating the distance, and taking his current speed into account, Ñolofinwë estimated that it would take him a few hours to arrive at Formenos, just in the early hours of the afternoon.

A fact that needed careful consideration.

Ñolofinwë knew Fëanáro and all his habits. Arriving in early afternoon was the worst time imaginable.

Usually, Fëanáro would hide himself in the forge right after lunch, and his sons had their sparring sessions shortly after. So it had been in Tirion, and Ñolofinwë doubted that anything had changed. His brother, more than any other person Ñolofinwë knew, stuck to his well-beloved habits. It was after dinner when Fëanáro was to be best approached; freshly bathed, sated and ideally having had a glass of wine or two already whilst looking back on a satisfying and productive day.

No, he would not risk arriving earlier than that. Ñolofinwë turned his horse around and rode back to a pond in the forest he had passed half an hour ago. Some refreshment would do him good. He not only looked the beggar but smelled like one.

The water of the pond was chilly at best. It was nothing like the hot springs outside of Tirion, which he sometimes still sought out, or the luxury of his own bath – or Fëanáro’s.

One of his most precious memories of their relationship was a shared bath with Fëanáro, on a night during which unknown gentleness had reigned his brother’s mind. Carefully, he had washed Ñolofinwë’s hair and combed it afterwards, getting distracted from his work whenever he placed small kisses to Ñolofinwë’s throat; and in the steamy room, it had not stopped there. Ñolofinwë lost himself in the memories of that night, so pleasant and real that his body reacted to it.

Although dearly tempted, Ñolofinwë did not touch himself. To find his orgasm here, in the ancient forest without his brother’s hands being the cause of it, felt wrong, like the worst sort betrayal. Instead, he finished cleaning himself and dressed in fresh clothes of the same kind he had worn during his journey. Then, he combed and braided his still-wet hair. The only thing he changed was that he fastened his braids at the back of his head with golden clips in the shape of butterflies. They had been a gift from Fëanáro, forged the day after they had lain together for the very first time.

 

*

Eventually, the time for Ñolofinwë to saddle his horse again came. With each minute that had trickled by, Ñolofinwë’s nervousness had grown, sending him pacing about like a caged beast. Even the horse got restless from it.  

Ñolofinwë was glad to be on his way, rephrasing what he wished to say a thousand times in his head. He had chosen his actions and words a long time ago, repeated them night after night, knew them in deepest slumber, yet still he worried his voice would become a laughable croak once Fëanáro truly stood before him. It had happened in the past and the emotional humiliation of it still burned upon his skin. His hands were sweaty against the leather of the reigns and rubbing them against the fabric of his tunic brought only momentary improvement as he rode out of the forest onto the plain that lay in front of Formenos. If his brother had placed watchmen on the walls, his coming – or at least the arrival of somebody – was already known.

Ñolofinwë inhaled deeply to steady himself, then rode through the gate of Formenos into a bricked yard. Just as he had half expected, half anticipated, the yard was empty, apart from one of Fëanáro’s servants. A groom, judging from the clothes he wore, who rushed from one end to the other but stopped when he saw the stranger approach. Unimpressed, Ñolofinwë unsaddled the horse and removed the small bag he had brought with him.  

“My lord Curufinwë,” Ñolofinwë heard the Elf call out, his voice filled with both excitement and suspicion.  “An unannounced visitor has come.”

Of all of Fëanáro’s sons, had it to be Curufinwë to greet him first? Before he had even finished his thought, Curufinwë stepped out of the house with a sigh of annoyance, complaining about being disturbed from whatever he had been doing. His eyes widened the moment he saw who the visitor was.

“Ñolofinwë?” Curufinwë asked in disbelief and without any courtesy, then immediately called for his brothers. “Tyelkormo! Nelyo! Come and see who graced us with his presence!”

Ñolofinwë did not bother to answer Curufinwë’s mockery. He stood his ground, dedicated to his cause.

He watched Curufinwë’s siblings pour out of the house, one by one, until all seven stood on the veranda before the entrance door, staring at him, their excited chatter filling the air like a disturbed flock of birds, their faces filled with suspicion, amusement and even indignation.

Unsurprisingly, their voices brought Fëanáro outside. Ñolofinwë’s heart ached the moment he laid his eyes upon his brother’s face, his beauty, and only then understood how much he had truly missed him. Ready to scold his children for the disturbance of his rest, Fëanáro’s expression transformed the moment he spotted Ñolofinwë in his plain clothes.

Fëanáro’s eyes went wide. He looked confused, which did not surprise Ñolofinwë at all, for he would have reacted the same way if Fëanáro came to his house like this. Yet there was more, and Ñolofinwë saw all of it. For a brief moment his emotions were not concealed and Ñolofinwë could observe fear, anger, desperation and amazement, for a moment devoid of all the confidence he usually projected. It was enough to make Ñolofinwë’s breath snag in his throat.

In contrast to all his seven sons who still remained scattered on the stairs talking to each other, Fëanáro descended the stairs, eyes fixed upon Ñolofinwë. He held Fëanáro’s gaze, unflinching, yet admired his brother’s beauty all the same. Threads of gold ran through the red fabric of Fëanáro’s robe like meandering rivers, matching the jewels he wore with a perfection only Fëanáro could accomplish. His skill was unequaled. During his banishment he had remade the necklace in which the Silmarils sat shining, and golden earrings accompanied him. He was dressed as a king who ruled, and although Ñolofinwë thought it a little odd, it well suited his plan as it only highlighted his own lack of regalia. As king in Finwë’s absence he had every right to wear the fanciest jewels, but he had decided that before Fëanáro, he would not.

Fëanáro rushed towards him like a whirlwind, hair unbraided, and flying by the speed of his steps as did his robe. As his brother came loser, Ñolofinwë dared a closer look.

Fëanáro looked tired, worn, as if he had not slept for too long, and as if Fëanáro had heard Ñolofinwë’s unvoiced question, he slowed down his pace.

There was no time to repeat the words in his head again; no time to recall Fëanáro’s open affront in Tirion nine years ago; no time to reconsider.

Thus Ñolofinwë fell to his knees in the bricked courtyard of Formenos the moment Fëanáro stood right before him. Head bowed like a traitor, he touched his brother’s knees and kissed Fëanáro’s hands to plead in silence. For so many years, he had dreamed of feeling his brother’s skin again; for so many endless nights he had hunted after the sensation of his lips against his brother’s, and Ñolofinwë was certain his knees would grow weak if he was not kneeling already. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments to lose himself in the moment when finally dreams came to life. And though he could not see his brother’s face he felt the tremble in Fëanáro’s arms; the obvious confusion. Fëanáro’s shock was palpable.

The chatter of his sons and followers ceased; they were all staring at each other, or at Ñolofinwë’s display. He acted as if he had attacked Fëanáro, not the other way round, and Ñolofinwë doubted that any of them would understand what strength lay in acting in such a way.

Ñolofinwë, still on his knees complaining in grief for all the years lost to them, looked upwards, right into his brother’s face until at last Fëanáro took his brother’s hands and surrendered to his own emotions. “How did you find the courage to come here all alone and meet the eyes of the one who has attacked you openly? Too many are the evils we both have endured from what the wretched gods have arranged for us. We should live in pain and misery whilst they themselves are sorrowless.”

“Do not speak further, brother,” Ñolofinwë said, for nothing good would come of such blasphemy. “At last I have come, when I should have come much earlier.”

“Rise, and let us not speak of it, nor of what has caused the situation as it is.” Fëanáro whispered for only him to hear, then louder, to all the rest: “Be gone, all of you!”

To Ñolofinwë it was as if his brother had trouble keeping the emotion out of his voice when he spoke to his sons and followers, trembling and deeply touched by his brother’s actions. Only when even Curufinwë has slipped back inside did Ñolofinwë rise to his feet, watching Fëanáro closely.

“Brother!” Fëanáro said, then smiled, and for a second Ñolofinwë thought he might faint from that smile alone. “Let us go inside, a groom will attend to your ... horse.”

Undoubtedly, it was no horse Fëanor, being used to the same breed of noble steeds as Ñolofinwë himself, considered even worthy of that name., Both of them had inherited their addiction to horses from their father, yet for once, Fëanáro did not go on forever about it.

Fëanáro squeezed Ñolofinwë’s hand in encouragement and gestured him to follow him inside of the house. Formenos was a place of wonder, a perfect replica of Fëanáro’s home in Tirion so that Ñolofinwë knew exactly which room lay behind each door. Swords and shields and drawings hung on the walls of the hallway, which led them upstairs into the privacy of Fëanáro’s study.

The glance Fëanáro shot Ñolofinwë the moment the door fell shut behind them spoke more than words ever could. The room was laid out just as it had been in Tirion with a large desk surrounded by many books, and with delight Ñolofinwë thought back to the day when Fëanáro had taken him on the desk, not caring that the oil soiled many documents that still lay scattered beneath his brother’s skin.

Perhaps that was the reason why Ñolofinwë’s eyes were drawn to the desk. Did Fëanáro wish to repeat it, he wondered, and then he noticed something else. At first, Ñolofinwë thought the drawing on Fëanáro’s desk to be just an illusion, a trick of the light that made it so resemble his own features, until Fëanáro spoke, voice shaking and thick with emotion. “When I was certain you would never come, I drew you; to get your face out of my head, to indulge into memories; for the sole reason that I missed you.”

The look on Fëanáro’s face was heartbreaking.

“You are as alone as I am,” Ñolofinwë told his brother, though he did not think his words to be true. In fact, he was certain that his brother was lonelier than he was. A flock of sons and a doting father was nothing against a lover’s touch.

Fëanáro swallowed, as if something in him wanted to answer but he was not able to find the words. It was not like Fëanáro was not gifted with words, so seeing him in search of them like this could easily have sparked self-satisfaction, but Ñolofinwë found he would rather hear the words being said than watch his brother struggle.

Silence lay over them, thick and weighted until at last Fëanáro found his voice back. “I confess, my pride makes me hesitate to say so, but yes, we are both alone without each other. Perhaps I more than you.”

There was no dry sarcasm in Fëanáro’s voice; no mockery, only the most open sort of vulnerability which Ñolofinwë was not used to.

In the wake of having spoken, Fëanáro stepped forward into the empty space that still separated them, close enough that Ñolofinwë could feel the heat emanating from his body. Breathing in his brother’s smell for the first time in years made Ñolofinwë nearly come undone; he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing the memories his mind brought forth to linger there for a moment before he focused on the present. He didn’t know how long he was allowed to stay at Formenos, how long Fëanáro’s mood would be forgiving as it was now. Perhaps for that night alone, he thought – if even that long.

Ñolofinwë braced himself for his brother’s touch but it still came as a shock when he felt hands other than his own against his skin. Carefully, almost hesitantly, Fëanáro reached out to cup Ñolofinwë’s face, tracing his cheekbones lightly. Like a cat demanding attention from its owner he pressed his face against his brother’s hands.  Nine years of solitude had been too long. Fëanáro’s gentleness lasted only momentarily and a shudder rippled through Ñolofinwë when his brother pressed him against the wall with the weight of his own body, leaving nothing to Ñolofinwë’s imagination.

“So?” Fëanáro murmured, face half pressed into Ñolofinwë’s neck, his breath crawling along Ñolofinwë’s throat in the wake of speaking.

As to add weight to his words, Fëanáro nudged one knee between his brother’s legs, enough friction against his erection for Ñolofinwë to respond vocally. Otherwise, he did not have an answer to Fëanáro’s question; didn’t need to have one as Fëanáro’s mouth claimed his own before he could even think of anything to say.

In this moment, opening his mouth to Fëanáro’s, all of Ñolofinwë’s remaining doubts and questions were crushed and he mirrored his brother’s touch, bringing his arms around Fëanáro’s neck, pressing his head even closer against his own. He did not care if he was thrown out of Formenos after Fëanáro had his way with him; not when Fëanáro touched him like this.

There had never been a debate of who led in their relationship; it had come perfectly naturally between them and not once had Ñolofinwë experienced the desire to change it. There was nothing better, nothing more arousing than to feel his brother’s weight spread across his body; the press of his skin against his backside; Fëanáro’s fingers fisted into his hair.

It would feel strange, perhaps even wrong if it wasn’t like this. Ñolofinwë simply preferred it that way, both for himself and because he knew just how much Fëanáro enjoyed it that way. A few rough strokes of his brother’s palm through the fabric of his breeches was enough for Ñolofinwë to harden fully, and obviously Fëanáro felt it. He laughed against Ñolofinwë’s skin, rubbing a little harder.

On another occasion, Fëanáro might have said ‘put your mouth to good use’ just as he had done so often before, and in the wake of it, Ñolofinwë had sunk upon his knees, showing obedience in the most intimate way. Even now, their position would be perfect for it with the wall preventing Ñolofinwë’s head from evading his brother’s thrusts.

Fëanáro had other ideas. Hands clawing at Ñolofinwë’s tunic, nearly tearing it apart by the force of his touch, he kissed his Ñolofinwë’s throat, then bit down and sucked at it, making certain a mark would show. Just as it excited Fëanáro to mark his brother so, it excited Ñolofinwë to be marked. Soon it would become another memory that would linger for at least a couple of days when his brother’s hands were already gone from his skin for long; a mark, which he could touch, and smile when he rode back to Tirion again.

Breath ragged and eyes alight, Fëanáro withdrew from Ñolofinwë’s skin.

“There, in that bag of yours, what is in there?” he whispered huskily, his curiosity and impatience not lost on Ñolofinwë.

Ñolofinwë smiled, catching his breath. “Can you not guess?”

Fëanáro could. He half dragged, half pushed Ñolofinwë into the direction of the door that led to his bedroom, and when they were inside his lips slid into a smile.  Arousal shot through Ñolofinwë at the mere prospect of what would happen next and they stumbled into the room, shedding layers of clothes, interrupted by uncoordinated kisses and touches. Fëanáro’s touch spoke of insatiable hunger; of too many years alone. It surprised Ñolofinwë that they even made it to the bed and did not end up fucking on the floor in all their desperation.

Without being bidden to, Ñolofinwë crawled onto the bed on all fours so that he was completely exposed under Fëanáro’s gaze. But then that was what he had come for, to lay himself at his brother’s feet and make himself a sacrifice. Not necessarily on Fëanáro’s bed but alas, he did not complain.

Fëanáro followed him, searching noisily in the bag that he had taken from Ñolofinwë, and by the impatience of it, Ñolofinwë could tell much about his brother’s hunger for him. His touch was hot and needy against Ñolofinwë’s buttocks, guided by too much impatience and too little oil for the metallic plug that was cold against his skin, but he did not care. He had waited so long to be at his brother’s mercy again, long years in which he had refrained from using these objects made for their game alone, and he knew what bliss awaited him soon. Perhaps the trust once broken would be repaired.

“It has been long since last you have serviced me thus,” Ñolofinwë remarked, almost sobbing into the golden pillow.

In fact, Fëanáro had only done it a couple of times before. He usually simply used his fingers, rough and calloused from years in his workshop, making sure that Ñolofinwë could feel the ring their father gave him as first-born son and heir with every thrust.

There was a smile in Fëanáro’s voice. “Do not be fooled. I only service you if it is beneficial to my cause. Turn around.”

Ñolofinwë whimpered as the plug was removed from his body but did as he was told and lay down on his back for Fëanáro anyway. He didn’t argue when Fëanáro pushed into him without warning, did not complain when again his brother bit down on his throat. Last time they had been together like this, Fëanáro had left him the memory of a smile and for nine long years, he had fed on that smile alone, otherwise starved.

He clawed at the bedding and stared into his brother’s face as his Fëanáro made his way inside of him. For a moment, his body fought against Fëanáro’s erection, which was much larger than all the plugs he used.

 _‘A couple of moments, not long, not long,’_ Ñolofinwë told himself, burying his hands in his brother’s hair.

After that, there was neither discomfort nor hurt, although Fëanáro was not exactly gentle; only the fierce and raging tempest of their mutual passion. Fëanáro’s eyes never left Ñolofinwë’s face and just as his brother watched him, he watched in return, only interrupted when their lips came together. Soon, his body was taut and gleaming with sweat, even in the chilly air of the night, and on the edge of his senses he heard Fëanáro calling his name.

 

*

Ñolofinwë, now resting comfortably on Fëanáro’s chest, dared a glance to his brother’s face. Black hair fanned out upon the golden pillow, eyes not quite closed but not far from it; he knew Fëanáro was watching him in return, he always did, and it brought strange satisfaction to Ñolofinwë to have his brother admire him through half-lidded eyes. Through the night the fires had burnt to ember-glowing red piles of ash in the hearths, spilling the reddish light onto their skin.

He shifted so that he could reach Fëanáro’s throat, to which he planted small kisses traveling up towards his ear. It took a moment for him to figure out how exactly to voice what had lain on his mind from the beginning, still trembling from what they have shared. “I forgave you long ago, and will say so for all to hear. You shall lead, as you always did, and I will follow you. Thank you –”

“Not yet.” Fëanáro laughed, rolling his brother over so that Ñolofinwë, obviously surprised lay on his stomach. “Spare your courtesies for after I have fucked you again.”

Despite his teasing words, Fëanáro seemed vulnerable now, his face an open book to read.. It was no longer hunger or lust that drove him, and although Fëanáro would not speak about his needs in moments like these, Ñolofinwë knew what his brother craved: affection, love, and tenderness. Gently, Ñolofinwë wrapped his arms around his brother and for once Fëanáro welcomed it. He allowed Ñolofinwë to hold him as if he was the most precious thing in the world, which was not far from the truth; allowed himself to sob against his brother’s shoulder, overwhelmed by his own emotions. And then, when Fëanáro’s breakdown finally subsided they lay together until morning came, with no blankets or barriers between them.

“Stay with me, at least for a while,” Fëanáro mumbled, content and sated.

Against Fëanáro’s skin Ñolofinwë smiled. “I shall gladly stay.”

And so it came to pass that Ñolofinwë stayed in Formenos for twelve long days. For once their quarrel of old was buried until at last his duty called him back to Tirion.

*

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (*) "It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend." - W. Blake


End file.
